


Murder at the Fête

by Vyola



Category: Miss Marple - Agatha Christie
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 15:57:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1095874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vyola/pseuds/Vyola
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When murder strikes unseen, only Miss Marple can sort through means, motive, and opportunity to reveal the killer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Murder at the Fête

**Author's Note:**

  * For [smilebackwards](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smilebackwards/gifts).



"What we need is a nice, juicy murder!"

One might have expected such a statement to be greeted with alarm and dismay. At the very least, some surprise should have shown on the faces of the assembled guests when their hostess expressed her desire for death instead of dessert.

Instead, expectation and even eagerness could be discerned in those seated at the table.

Joyce Lemprière, now Joyce West, directed her keen artist's eye at each of her guests in turn. "Come now! I hereby declare a new session of The Tuesday Night Club to order and require and request that some member offer up a mystery."

"I begin to suspect an ulterior motive in your dinner invitation than just the sheer pleasure of our company, my dear," Sir Henry Clithering said.

"Indeed, I quite agree," said Dr. Pender.

"As must I," added Mr. Petherick.

"What say you, Miss Marple?" Sir Henry turned to the final occupant of the room. "Does our hostess truly enjoy the company of such dry old sticks as we – always excepting you, my dear lady! – or has she only brought us here to sing for our supper?"

Miss Marple, that redoubtable and deceptively frail-appearing spinster, looked up with a benign smile. "You gentlemen will have your little jokes. I'm sure Joyce genuinely enjoys our presence while dear Raymond is away, even if we are perhaps a bit set in our ways." She turned her twinkling gaze to Joyce. "You might, however, have been a little more subtle in directing the conversation, dear."

"Sorry, Aunt Jane, I do truly like you all! But Raymond won't be back from the States for another two weeks – his agent insisted that a personal visit to his American publishers would do wonders for his next contract negotiations and then he decided that he might as well do some research while he was there.

"It was fun to be a single girl again for a little while," she continued, "I did some shopping in the city, spent a week tramping about the Lake District with my friend Penelope Whittaker, getting inspiration from nature. It doesn't do an artist any good to be all settled and domestic. We need to stretch our metaphorical wings." Joyce waved her hand expressively.

"So you thought a bit of armchair detection was the next step in your fitness regimen?" said Mr. Petherick. 

" _Mens sana in corpore sano_ ," Dr. Pender intoned gravely. The clergyman polished his pince-nez and examined them closely before returning them to their perch on his countenance. "But I'm afraid I haven't any stories for you this time. The ways of the human soul remain a mystery as ever but murders, thank Heaven, have been scarce on the ground."

"Don't you have anything, Sir Henry? A nice poisoning, a locked room puzzle, the last words of a dying man as he crumples to the floor?"

A dry cough attracted the attention of all away from the former Commissioner of Scotland Yard and toward Mr. Petherick.

"Actually, your words remind me of something I witnessed last year. No cryptic words, I must confess, but there was a dying man falling to the ground."

"That sounds promising," Joyce said. "Go on."

"It was early June of last year," the solicitor recalled. "I was visiting an old school friend in Selscombe, a town some few miles inland of Torquay in Devonshire. My friend had to go up to London on business and, not wishing to accompany him, I amused myself strolling about the village. An elaborate fête was in progress, in celebration of the anniversary of its founding, on the theme of Britannia Through the Ages.

"Little effort had been spared. Attics had been raided for the costumes of past generations and neither the stout yeoman calling for young men to try their hand at the coconut shy nor the equally stout matron supervising the tea pavilion would have looked the least bit out of place in those halcyon days before the war, when Edward ushered in a new reign and a new century.

"There were a number of tableaus set about the green, from Boadicea in her chariot defying the Roman legions and the swineherd's wife boxing King Alfred's ears over the burnt oatcakes to Drake setting sail for the Spanish Main and Lord Nelson imploring Hardy to make sure Lady Hamilton was taken care of.

"Much attention was paid to Lady Godiva as she rode through Coventry. I bypassed the appreciatively scandalized crowd and made my way to the tea pavilion, where a lady in a towering millinery confection of silk cabbage roses presided over a vast cream tea and played mother.

"I joined the line and found myself behind what I at first took to be a father and son by their resemblance. I soon learned that they were actually uncle and nephew, as their conversation was both loud and contentious. 

"’I am utterly serious, Matthew. You'll get nothing from me if you continue with this girl. I won't stand for you lowering the family name in this way. Look at her, parading about practically naked! Of course, what else would one expect from a shop girl – no name, no breeding, no sense of propriety.’

"’You don't even know her, Uncle Ralph! Marjorie is a perfectly respectable girl. Her parents died when she was young and she's had to support herself. There's nothing wrong with honest work. I don't know where you get this ridiculous notion of our family's dignity. You're just like Grandfather.’

"’Don't take that tone with me, Matthew. Your grandfather wouldn't have stood this nonsense for one minute. When my brother Henry disgraced this family by taking up with your mother's companion he was bundled off to the Army and she was dismissed immediately. Your generation is spoilt and soft; a war would teach you discipline and duty, a sense of honour. As it is, you'll have to learn it on your own for I will not support you as long as you persist in this relationship nor will you receive anything after my death.’

"They had by now reached the tea matron and broke off their quarrel as she handed over a milky cup to Uncle Ralph with a dip of her head that set her vast hat brim nodding. Barely looking up from pouring another, she asked Matthew his preference. ‘Milk, two sugars,’ he told her.

"They moved towards the trays of scones, jam, and clotted cream and I was briefly distracted by the matron's quiet inquiry. ‘One lump, please,’ I said.

"Matthew was still pressing his point as I claimed a scone and took my place at a table just behind them. ‘You can't keep me from Mother's money. It comes to me when I turn 25.’

"’Four years can be a long time, my boy. We'll see how interested your shop girl is when all you have is a pittance and no expectation of more.’ Uncle Ralph sipped noisily from his teacup and then turned to splitting his scone.

"Matthew stood, abruptly pushing his chair back. ‘Don't think your threats will sway me, Uncle. I love Marjorie and I'm going to marry her.’ 

"’I'm up to London to see my solicitor on Wednesday. Once I change my will, that will be it. End this foolish affair at once and we need never speak of this nonsense again.’ Ralph brandished his knife, sending a dollop of strawberry jam to land like a paint splatter on the white tablecloth.

"Matthew started to say something, then paused and squared his shoulders. ‘You're leaving me no choice. I hope you won't live to regret this.’ And with that he marched out of the pavilion.

“No one else around had taken much notice of the incident, which inclined me to the belief that such altercations were not unusual. I watched idly as the matron and her girls bustled about clearing the tables and refilling the cups but I did not linger long over my tea and, continuing about the fête, I soon put it out of my mind. I lent an ear to schoolboys declaiming the St. Crispin’s Day speech and _The Charge of the Light Brigade_ , admired a charming band of Tudor maids swaying about a maypole, and passed enough charity stalls to outfit a half-dozen orphanages. 

“Later still, I was enjoying a remarkable scrumpy brewed by a local farmer when a familiar voice, raised again in anger, drew my attention. Uncle Ralph stood square in front of Lady Godiva, who had just dismounted. As her steed was led away, I was able to see that strategically-placed clouds of tulle and flower garlands carefully assisted unnaturally long and golden hair in preserving her modesty. The illusion had been effective at a distance but up close revealed even less than a bathing costume.

“Remembering Ralph’s earlier complaints about ‘nakedness’, I deduced that this must be the Marjorie to whom he objected, and indeed it was. Stepping closer, I was able to hear him remonstrate with her.

“’I have told Matthew and now I wish to make it clear to you. He will have nothing from me. Your mercenary schemes are for naught. Make no mistake, I can and will see you dismissed from your job without a reference unless you break this off now.’

“Marjorie raised her chin and pressed her lips together. She was a pretty girl, with wide brown eyes that flashed defiantly. Taking a deep breath, she said, ‘I have nothing to say to you, sir.’

“She started to step away but he reached out and made as if to grip her arm. She flung out a hand and pushed against his chest. Startled, he fell back and she quickly walked past, darting between two stalls and becoming lost from view.

“Ralph gathered himself up and glared at the gawking crowd before stomping away. I must confess, I was glad to see him go. The first scene I had witnessed had seemed almost a part of the theatrics of the day, a little drama ‘full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.’ But this second encounter was far too real. Ralph had seemed on the verge of offering violence to young Marjorie. In my profession I have seen the results of ungoverned temper far too often and I could not help but feel worried for the young lovers.

“Such fears were misplaced, however. Not an hour later, it was Ralph who met a violent end.”

This pronouncement electrified Mr. Petherick’s audience.

“What! You don’t mean to say that mean Uncle Ralph was murdered?” Joyce leaned forward excitedly.

“Mmm, that would solve our young lovers’ dilemma, wouldn’t it?” Sir Henry mused. “Go on, Petherick. Murder away.”

Mr. Petherick gave a tight, little smile. “As I departed, I passed again the tea pavilion and saw Ralph sitting alone at a table. He was hunched over slightly, his gaze undirected. A small dot of strawberry jam marred the center of his chest.

“One of the younger waitresses brushed by him, reaching to clear the next table. ‘Excuse me, sir,’ she said.

“Ralph made no reply. Instead, he tipped to the side and abruptly fell with his chair to lay unmoving on the ground. Almost immediately the girl screamed, ‘He’s dead! Oh, dear Heaven, he’s stone dead!”

“I pushed through the crowd of concerned citizens and gawkers that immediately formed. It was a striking scene, the untouched tea and scone waiting on the table, Ralph sprawled out tangled with his chair. He was indeed dead and what I had taken for a jam stain was in fact a blood stain squarely over his heart. 

“A doctor was sent for and soon arrived, along with a constable. As the former went about his inspection of the body, the latter questioned those gathered around. Listening, I learned that Ralph was Ralph Dinsmore, the Dinsmores being a long-established family in Selscombe, and that the quarrel between he and his nephew, Matthew Amesworth, was well-known in the village.

“Amesworth and his fiancée, Marjorie Rundle, were soon found and brought to the pavilion, arriving in time to hear the doctor give his considered opinion that Dinsmore had been stabbed less than half an hour ago and that the weapon had been a long, thin blade, perhaps an ice pick.

“Marjorie Rundle gasped at this. The constable pressed her closely until Matthew Amesworth grudgingly admitted that after parting from his uncle, he had spent the afternoon assisting at the lemon squash stall, breaking up ice for the ladies there when the boy assigned to help them had run off to play games. Amesworth insisted that he had not left the stall until informed of his uncle’s death.

“Undaunted, the constable turned to Miss Rundle. Others besides myself had seen and reported her altercation with Dinsmore. She, too, denied stabbing him.”

With this, Mr. Petherick sat back. “I think this would be a suitable time to hear your opinions and answer any questions you may have.”

“It seems to me that Marjorie _must_ have done it,” Joyce said. “When she pushed him away, she stabbed him. They say if the blade is sharp enough, you don’t even know you’ve been cut. Ralph starts feeling poorly, stumbles into the nearest chair, and dies.”

“Stabbing a man in a crowd is a risky proposition,” Sir Henry mused. “Not that young women haven’t committed the most extraordinary crimes, but it seems to me to be a more masculine approach.”

Dr. Pender agreed. “A young man feels he has no choice – but one obstacle stand between him and his love. He looks and sees not an ice pick in his hand but a means to an end. He doesn’t stop to think. He slips away from the lemon squash stall. His uncle thinks he comes to submit to his will. Instead, he strikes!”

“Ah, but the doctor reported that the wound would have been instantly fatal,” Mr. Petherick answered Joyce first. “If Miss Rundle had struck Dinsmore then, he would have dropped dead then and there.”

“And don’t forget, my dear,” Miss Marple reminded her, “she was dressed as Lady Godiva. It would be quite difficult to conceal a weapon, I should think, particularly a sharp one. All that tulle and shifting about on a horse. Too much of a risk.”

“As for Amesworth,” the solicitor continued, “the ladies at the lemon squash stall verified his claim. Their cordial is renowned in the district and they kept him quite busy. In particular, the time between Dinsmore’s meeting with Marjorie Rundle and his death was accounted for. There was simply no time for him to have left their stall, run to the pavilion, stabbed his uncle, and returned.

“Moreover, the other patrons were insistent that no one had approached Dinsmore. Various witnesses had seen him come in, drink his tea, and sit there all alone until suddenly he fell over, stabbed in the heart by an apparently invisible assailant with an unseen weapon.”

“But someone had to have approached him and all those witnesses had to have seen it happen.”

Like students awaiting the dictum of their master, all heads turned toward Miss Marple. 

“They said Ralph Dinsmore sat and drank his tea. But you saw an untouched cup. So someone brought him a new one.”

“The waitress? Why would she want to kill him?” Dr. Pender asked.

“And why ever would she be carrying an ice pick?” Joyce wondered.

“Oh, not the waitress,” Miss Marple corrected. “The tea matron. She asked Matthew Amesworth and Mr. Petherick how they took their tea but gave Ralph Dinsmore milky tea without ever asking. She clearly knew him. And when he finished one cup while sitting there alone, she brought him another, leaned forward to set it down – and stabbed him. No one saw her because no one thinks twice about the staff going about their business.”

“But, ice pick – !” Joyce almost wailed.

“Mr. Petherick described the staff of the tea pavilion as costumed from the last reign, you may recall. You are too young, my dear, to have worn such things. They quite went out of fashion after the war, all the Bright Young People with their bobs and shingles and snug little caps. And the gentlemen, of course, rarely give mind to the little tricks women must use to be fashionable.”

Her eyes twinkled as she took in their looks of incomprehension. “Wide brimmed hats. Sometimes covered with the most outrageous ornaments, like cabbage roses. There was no keeping them in place without a sturdy hatpin or two. It would be quite easy to stab a man with one. She was the sister’s companion, I suppose, the one turned off for her involvement with Ralph Dinsmore’s brother?”

“Miss Marple, I salute you.” Mr. Petherick inclined his head gravely. “When it seemed that a cloud of suspicion would linger over Amesworth and Miss Rundle’s heads despite the lack of formal charges, the woman came forward. She had indeed been the companion to Amesworth’s mother, Ralph Dinsdale’s sister, and in love with their brother, Henry. When their father discovered the affair, she was cast out and Henry enlisted in the Army. He was lost at the Somme.

“After many difficulties, for which she held the Dinsdales responsible, she had settled into obscurity near Selscombe. In time, she came to hear of young Matthew and Marjorie and could not help but see a parallel with her own tragic past. Hearing Ralph Dinsdale’s ultimatum pushed her to the brink and she determined that history would not repeat itself.”

Dr. Pender intoned gravely. “Poor thing! I’m sure she had been dwelling on her unhappiness for many years.”

“Indeed,” Miss Marple nodded. “You know, there is really little difference between a hatpin and an icepick except for the handle, and it wasn’t unusual for a young woman to use a hatpin to discourage those who were less than gentlemanly in their attentions. Of course, discouragement is a far cry from murder. Otherwise, far more gentlemen would have learned to beware of fashionable young ladies.”

**Author's Note:**

> All hail Dame Agatha! My respect for her, already great, grew by leaps and bounds as I sought not only plot twists that she hadn't already used (or at least ones I could disguise adequately) but also clues that would be clear only in hindsight to all except Miss Marple. No wonder she kept notebooks of ideas all her life!
> 
> I hope you have enjoyed this reunion of The Tuesday Night Club, that the mystery was satisfactory, and that you are suitably shocked by the depths of the depravity of human nature that living in a village will expose you to.


End file.
